If My Heart Should Somehow Stop
by cumbersmaug
Summary: Angsty-angst. Post Reichenbach. Illness. Character death. Suspense. No intentional pairing - I leave that to the reader.
1. Chapter 1

John let his finger run across his face as he looked himself in the mirror. Stubbles. Dark rings around his eyes. He looked tired, and so much older than he was. John frowned as his fingers stopped at a particularly long hair. He could hardly call these stubbles anymore. The days were all so alike he had trouble telling them apart. _Will this be the day?_ The same question he asked himself every day.

John placed his tired hand on the shower taps. He stared at the running water for a long minute before he stepped into it. He couldn't even remember when he last took a shower. He couldn't remember anything these days. He was a wreck of a man.

He poured the shower gel into his palm. He ended up just staring at it for several seconds before he started massaging it onto his body. The smell and feel of the foaming gel on his body was heavenly good. He carefully started massaging it onto his shoulders, before he worked his way down his chest and arms. Oh, his ribs. He could feel them now. He knew that if he looked in the wall-mirror in his bedroom, he would be able to see them as well. Clearly. That was perhaps partly the reason he'd thrown a sheet over it. He had no desire what so ever, to look himself in the mirror. He knew exactly what it would reveal: A used and tired man. Ribs pointing out from his sides. A concave stomach - a body which had used to be tanned with defined muscles, but now was pale and scrawny. A wreck.

John stepped out of the shower, threw the bathrobe over his shoulders and walked into the kitchen. Two mugs were waiting for him on a clean counter in the otherwise messy kitchen. Sherlock's apparatus and experiments were spread out on the kitchen table. He grabbed his mug to pour himself a cup of tea. The other mug was still standing there, untouched and dusty, as it had for months. _Months? Or was it years?_ _No, it couldn't be years, could it?_ It was hard to keep track of the time. That's how life seems when you're walking in a fog which you just can't seem to clear. He still waited for Sherlock to come prancing into the flat. And when he did, his mug would stand there ready for him, next to the teapot. John wanted Sherlock to know that he cared about him.

John's heavy feet carried him over to his chair, before he placed his mug on the table. From the floor next to his chair he picked up the same old photo album he used to skim through every night. He could never spend too much time going through the pages of it. His heart couldn't bear it. But still he just had to look.

The leather binding creaked as he opened the album slowly. He had started making this album shortly after he and Sherlock had moved together. On the first page one could see a picture of Sherlock sitting by the kitchen table, very focused, over one of his experiments. On the next one John had managed to get a bit closer with his camera without Sherlock turning around. On the third picture Sherlock looks at the camera with a suffering expression, his mouth open – clearly speaking , and a finger pointing towards the living room. John smiled faintly. He was quite the character, Sherlock. John turned the pages of the album slowly. Sometimes he smiled. Sometimes he would chuckle a bit. And sometimes his expression would freeze. He finally stopped at the last page. It was a picture of them both, for once. It was a neutral picture – but he still loved it. It had been just a random snapshot, but sometimes the random snapshots turn out to be the most alive and natural photos. They were sitting on a park bench – not too close – they kept a friendly distance. John with a cup of coffee, Sherlock with his hands empty. In the picture Sherlock gesticulated wildly as he looked at John with piercing eyes, clearly sharing his thoughts about something. The John at the picture looked at Sherlock with an interested and sincere expression, listening to Sherlock's words.

John's thumb brushed gently over the photo. He could almost feel himself nodding at Sherlock's silent words. A tiny, salty drop hit the dark paper of the album – making a small, almost invisible black mark. John woke up from his trance. He was done going through their memories for today. He couldn't bring himself to shut the album – instead he placed it as it was on the living room table. He casted a glance towards the window from where he was sitting; it was dark. He should probably think about going to bed.

As he was about to get up from the chair, John stopped. His eyes were frozen, staring out into the dark room. He was having one of these moments again. He could sense _him_. He could feel his presence. As if he'd entered the room silently behind him. Sherlock's presence. He could feel him staring at the back of his head. John held on to the moment. He waited, as if the silence would suddenly be penetrated by the familiar, deep voice. But of course, this didn't happen. John didn't turn around. _Why bother?_ There was no one there, he knew it. Like the hundreds of times he had turned around expecting to see the tall man with the dark, curly hair and the piercing eyes. Nothing.

John sighed as he buried his fists in the armrests to get up from the chair. _Tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow_. _Yes. Tomorrow would be the day_. The words carried a new tune in his head. _Tomorrow would be a day of changes._ John's eyes wandered across the dusty room. _Yes. Changes. Definitively_.

As he placed his hand against the bedroom door, he stopped. He could still feel _his_ presence behind him, in the dark hallway. It had never lasted this long before. He swallowed heavily as he turned around to look. He already feared the disappointment which waited for him. His feet hesitated, his heart yearned. He turned around. He stopped.

In front of him there was a man. A silhouette of a man. He looked strange, but yet so familiar. His hair was longer than it used to. And was that a beard? John couldn't see his eyes, but he could see from the way the man was carrying his body that he was tired, and had been for a long time.

_No. No! Oh god, I am hallucinating. I need help!_

John wanted this. His heart wanted this. His body wanted this. _Please, wicked mind, do not fool me._ John's voice cracked, "Sh-. Sh-Sherlock?"

The silhouette slowly stepped forward. The man took John's hands in his own. It was a firm grip. The man leant forward and laughed with a theatrical voice. _Laughed?_ "Close, but no cigar, Johnny-boy!"


	2. Chapter 2

_There had been a sound, a thump, and then it all went black. _

John tried to move his arms. He was lying face down on something cold and hard. Everything hurt. He could sense both the taste and smell of blood as he opened his eyes slowly. He didn't see much, only a cold, hard tile floor.

"Don't you recognize it?" someone chuckled behind him. "Your boyfriend had me at gunpoint. I must say, it was a bit rude. We had only just met."

_Jim_. Of course it was Jim. John choked a whimper. What on earth could Jim want from him? It was Sherlock he had been stalking with an almost borderline psychotic fascination. John was a down-to-earth man. How could he possibly interest a madman like Jim? "He was not my boyfriend," John answers with unclear voice.

Jim chuckles lightly. "Oh, well. I don't really care much for categories. Boyfriend. Partner. _Colleague_. No matter what you choose to call it, this is not the reason why I've summoned you."

"Summoned me?" John groaned from pain as he tried to turn around, but his feet felt incredibly heavy. "-I was bloody kidnapped! What did you do to me? Why am I here?" John tried once more to turn around. He couldn't understand why this task seemed so challenging. He suddenly felt his blood freeze, as something dawned upon him: He felt pain in pretty much every body part, except his legs. In fact, he couldn't feel his legs at all. "What the hell did you do to me?" John panicked.

Jim's steps came closer. His voice changed, it was harder and colder. "You know, John – that really hurts. You accusing me of doing you harm." He stopped. "Before throwing accusations, you should be sure you're talking to the right person." He chuckled again. "It was my dear Seb. Don't like getting my hands dirty, remember? Oh, Seb is precious to me. He is here, actually, but of course you cannot see him. Or hear him, for that matter. He's a good boy, my Seb. And he does enjoy a good play. He likes to watch." Jim almost whispers the last sentence. He did something – John could hear the fabric of Jim's stiff clothing move. "You asked a lot of questions, Johnny," Jim continued with his casual tone, "My dear Seb wanted to practice some chiropractics on you, but of course, he's not trained to do that." Jim chuckled, "And trust me. Soon enough you will find out why you are here. Or maybe not. It depends on your body, really. Your stamina. Oh, I am curious about you, John. How much my little, brave soldier can take."

John could almost hear Jim smile. He gathered all of his willpower, and with a great amount of concentration he managed to roll over on his back. He shut his eyes as he groaned in agony one more time. When he opened his eyes, he could see Jim. Jim was standing much closer to him than he had first thought. He couldn't be more than five feet away from him. There he was, simply looking at John with an amused grin. He had one hand lazily resting in his pocket, while playing with something in his other hand. Something small and shiny - it wasn't easy for John to see what it was. "Shouldn't you be dead?" John asked unsympathetically and cold. "I saw you. You and him."

"John, John, John." Jim continued, "It has been fun, these last few years. Because it have been _years_, John. Despite what you must believe." He paused. "Old-fashioned clinical depression, hm? Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. That is boring. Even if it was a deep one. Depression with suicidal tendencies? Well, at least that makes it a _bit_ more interesting." Jim looks at John. "Yes, I know. Of course I know. I have been watching you - to see how far down you would go. Like my own personal theatre. Starring John Watson. But then, suddenly, you started working your way up from the gutter. I must say, John, I almost admire you for that." Jim shuddered, "But that of course means it started to become boring. Because, to be honest, I misjudged you. I thought I would eventually witness you use your body as a pharmaceutical waste bin or take the good, old 'knot in the stairs'. But no, you were a bit stronger than that." Jim chuckled "And that, my dear John, leads us here."

John looked at Jim, figuring it would be best not to say anything. Jim bent down and opened his hand, so John could see what was in it; an old-fashioned razorblade. Jim's ecstatic voice penetrated the silence. "You and I are going to have so much fun!" He looked at John with a malevolent grin. "I know, I know. I don't like getting my hands dirty – but for you, John – I will make an exception. You are a special treat for me after all…" Jim slowly got down on his knees next to John. The blade was dancing in his hand as he looked up and down John's body, as if to decide where to start.

"You are a coward!" John hissed. "…And don't you dare underestimate me. You want to hear me scream in agony. You want to hear me beg you to stop. You would like that, wouldn't you? I am not going to grant you that pleasure. Oh, you are a _small_ man. Not even in the war, where men can turn into beasts, have I seen such a pathetic example of a man. "John swallowed, gritting his teeth in pain, as he raised his hand and pointed two fingers at Jim. "I curse you! I curse the soil you stand on! Everything that's happened to me, will happen to you! You will lose everything you have ever loved. Everything that's ever meant anything to you will rot!" John's face was white in anger. No, not just anger. Rage. That kind of rage which is sometimes provoked by great injustice. It was all so unfair! Sherlock was the one who's supposed to be alive. Not this narcissistic, sadistic maniac. The feeling of desperation hit him, and his thoughts went back to Sherlock's funeral. It had been a symbolic one, of course – they never found any body. Instead they had gathered some of Sherlock's personal belongings to put in the coffin. John swallowed again, still looking intensely at Jim, still pointing at him.

"Ah, thank you for helping a friend out!" With great force, completely ignoring John's words, Jim grabbed John's hand and pulled him closer. "Let's start here!" Without hesitation Jim slit John's wrist. He chuckled. "Take it easy, soldier boy. This won't kill you. But admit it, you have thought about doing this yourself many times, haven't you? Look at it as a friendly favour, will you? Ah! For once I actually feel like making a mess. A bloody mess! Pun intended." Jim laughed. It was a strange laugh. It was manic, but also under control.

Except from a low, surprised gasp, John didn't make a sound. He watched as the red liquid dripped down from his hand. He was passive. He didn't put up any resistance – that would only make the whole "game" more interesting to Jim. He had seen such primitive behaviour before: The hunt; the hunter and the prey. The more resistance the prey put up, the more violent treatment from the hunter. Even if Jim was highly intelligent, he was driven by primitive, raw emotion.

Jim let go of John's hand. "Let's do the other one, while we're at it." Jim repeated the procedure with John's other hand. John still didn't make a sound. He simply stared at Jim with big, emotionless eyes. Jim was annoyed. "You are scared, I can see it in your eyes." Jim tried. "Or you will be." Jim let the razor dance up John's arm and shoulder before placing it on his neck. "This game is tiresome. Let's get to the point." Jim cut the skin just enough to see a red, pearly drop form on John's neck. He chuckled again. "You know, curses really don't work on men like me. Or, primitive psychology, that's what it really is. No, no, no. John. Unfortunately not. One's got to believe it, you see. And-" Jim bursted out in laugther "I mean, just look at me. I am not the average man, Johnny-boy." Jim looked concentrated as he cut deeper into John's skin. "Now, I don't want you to die on me just yet-." He paused as he looked into John's eyes for a brief second "Because, yes, you are going to die, John." Jim chuckled again as he continued to cut. "But I am a nostalgic person. I want the moment to last. I want to have something to think back to. Whoops! Looks like I bumped into your windpipe a bit there. Aren't you even a little bit scared?" Jim pouted and looked into John's eyes.

John exhaled slowly. He was a soldier. He had been trained in how to handle torture, how to escape to a calm place in one's own head. His voice was hoarse and strained as he answered. "Not the least bit. You're forgetting something." John forced himself to smile, "Imagine that. You said it yourself. Suicidal tendencies. Major depression. " John coughed. "Everyone seems to love life. Except me. I have nothing left to live for. We are all going to die one day. The difference between me and the rest of us, is that I know exactly which day that is. Even you can be gone tomorrow." John paused. He was starting to feel dizzy. He felt warm and cold at the same time – and the sticky, red liquid was everywhere. The liquid of life which was now emptying from his body. Slowly."…To be frank, you are doing me a favour." John was still smiling, knowing these words would make Jim irritated – although there was a trace of truth in them. It took him great effort to do this. He could feel himself growing more tired by the second.

"Look at you, you are pathetic." Jim's voice was monotone for a change. "You used pretty much of your time on that mindless speech. And you are going to die not knowing why I brought you here." Jim chuckled, his mind was set on getting a reaction from John. Anything. "Poor sod. Tell me, how did you react after the first time you and Sherlock had sex? Did you _cry_? And what did he do? Did he walk away from you?" The same malevolent grin was back on Jim's face. He knew little about John and Sherlock's relationship – or if there even was one, but this was fun.

Tearing on his last reserves, John lifted his hand and placed it ungraciously under Jim's chin, making his face messy with blood. "I pity you. I do. Listen to yourself." John paused, he was exhausted and dizzy "…But I forgive you for this. For what you have done to me." _But I will never forgive you for Sherlock_, John thought. _Never_.

The words seemed to somehow provoke Jim. "Spare me," he snorted as he pushed John's hand away and got up from the floor. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood of his face. "You disgust me." Jim's eyes narrowed. He looked down at the man lying in a pool of his own blood. He stepped a bit closer, ignoring the fact that it was making his shoes dirty. John tried to talk again, his mouth was open, but he couldn't get his words out - instead there was a low gurgling. "Well, this has been nothing but a big disappointment to me." Jim looked around "Any last words, dear Johnny?"

John tried to lift his neck, but the task was excruciating, and seemed nearly impossible. He coughed in order to clear his throat, which only resulted in the taste of blood in his mouth. His eyes were slowly getting unclear, but he was determined to speak. A creaky sound escaped John's mouth as he opened it again. He looked up into the air, his voice was strained, and almost like a whisper. "Sherlock. S-semper et ubique fidelis." John coughed and gasped for air.

Jim opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a sound in the distance. A bang? Jim turned his head towards the other side of the room. A smile slowly started to grow on his face. "Oh dear, I think you're a little too late. I was expecting you sooner. Well, I got what I came for nonetheless." Jim paused. "Looks like the party has just started, John." Jim chuckled.

Jim's voice was far away, but with the last of his willpower John managed to turn his head in the same direction as Jim. John gurgled. He suddenly felt deathly terrified. His eyes became wet as he could see a well-known silhouette stop in the other end of the room. He didn't say anything, but his cold, icy eyes met John's warm eyes – and they held the gaze for many, long second before the silhouette fell down on his knees, with an expression revealing the most agonizing pain John had ever seen in his lifetime. "Sss… Sh-" John could feel himself fighting the battle of his life, struggling to stay conscious as he to his desperation could feel himself slipping further and further away. He couldn't slip away now! He couldn't die! He had to stay! This couldn't be true! Anger. Frustration. Desperation. Jim must've known this all along.

"Looks like you suddenly got a reason to stay alive, after all!" Jim looked down at John and chuckled lightly before he focused his attention on the collapsed silhouette in the other end of the room. "Finally. My dear, Sherlock." Jim stepped out of the pool of blood with playful grace. "Looks like you've got yourself an old-fashioned romantic, here." Jim looked down at John. "I knew you would come, eventually." "A bit late, this time, unfortunately. But you know me, I am impatient! I simply couldn't wait any longer for you to come out of your _cave_. Which of course made John a target." Jim looked down at John again. John stared vacantly out in the air, and didn't seem to be breathing.

Jim bent over and snapped his fingers in front of John's eyes – no response. With a disgusted expression he placed two fingers on John's neck to check his pulse. A triumphant expression was slowly uncovered on Jim's face. He nodded towards the still speechless Sherlock.

"Please don't start crying, honey. You know what that does to your otherwise beautiful face." Jim smiled. "So. What do you say? Let's continue where we left off."


End file.
